Haunted in America: True Ghost Stories From The Best of Leslie Rule Collection

By Leslie Rule and Lisa Flanagan

From best-selling author Leslie Rule comes a collection of stories about things that go bump in the night — true accounts collected from her years of research on ghostly encounters in the United States, including revised and updated content in Rule's singular voice.
Whether you’re a believer, a skeptic, or somewhere in between, you’ll find a story that sticks with you in this compendium of the best of Leslie Rule’s ghost explorations and interviews. With the most-spine tingling stories from the author’s previous four books, Coast to Coast Ghosts, When the Ghost Screams, Ghosts Among Us, and Ghost in the Mirror, along with new and updated accounts and theories, Rule brings her original voice to this omnibus of chilling, fascinating tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrews McMeel Publishing
• Release date: Oct 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781524881887

Book preview

Also by LESLIE RULE

NOVELS

Whispers from the Grave

Kill Me Again

nonfiction

Coast to Coast Ghosts: True Stories of Hauntings Across America

Ghosts Among Us: True Stories of Spirit Encounters

When the Ghost Screams: True Stories of Victims Who Haunt

Ghost in the Mirror: Real Cases of Spirit Encounters

Where Angels Tread: Real Stories of Miracles and Angelic Intervention

true crime

A Tangled Web: A Cyberstalker, a Deadly Obsession, and the Twisting Path to Justice

For my friend, Nancy Fischer.

Haunted in America: True Ghost Stories from the Best of Leslie Rule Collection

copyright © 2022 by Leslie Rule. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.

Andrews McMeel Publishing

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ISBN: 978-1-5248-8188-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022940267

Editor: Charlie Upchurch

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Contents

Introduction

1

The Eyes of Babes

2

It’s a Scream!

3

Accidents Happen

4

Can You Hear Me Now?

5

Overnight with Ghosts

6

When Justice Is Done

7

Afraid of the Light

8

Waking the Dead

9

Songs for the Dead

10

Possessions Possessed

11

Ice on a Balmy Breeze

12

Eat, Drink, and Be Scary

13

Ghosts on the Road

14

Witch Hunt

15

School Spirits

16

Paranormal Pets

17

A Helping Hand

A Final Word

Introduction

The stranger was there one moment and gone the next. No one saw him leave. How was it possible for a human being to move so quickly? No one at the Remington Employee Christmas party knew the old man. In fact, manager Joey Meyer was the only one who had seen him. Everyone knew each other, she said. It was mostly young people, employees, and their families. That’s why the old guy stood out. Joey recalled how the stranger in the long, dark coat had quietly observed the party from the edge of the crowd. He didn’t have a drink, she said. "He just stood there, smiling and watching. I thought, I wonder who he be longs to."

She had glanced away for a split second, and when she looked back, he was gone. Curious, she’d searched for him, even running outside to look. He was nowhere to be seen.

By the time Joey told me about this encounter, a few months had passed since the employee party, but she vividly remembered the smiling man, uninvited and so oddly out of place. He had appeared in December 1997 at the Remington Restaurant & Bar in Whitefish, Montana. By now, Joey had concluded that the elderly man was a ghost because her coworkers had also seen apparitions in the historic building.

My visit was in 1998, and I was there to research a book on ghosts. I was in the very beginning stages of the project, exploring a unique idea that I wasn’t sure would pan out. My plan was to research the history of haunted places in an effort to identify the ghosts seen. This had been done to some extent, but I intended to dig deeper. I hoped to find something in forgotten archives that could shed light on why a particular place experienced paranormal activity.

I was especially interested in locations where apparitions were seen because descriptions would help identify the ghosts. Sometimes spirits have no discernable features, appearing as shadowy figures, but Joey had seen an apparition so solid and real that she hadn’t realized he was a ghost until he vanished.

Who was the old fellow? What was his attachment to the place? Historical research was the key, but back in the 1990s, the internet was new to the average citizen, and very few records were posted online. The Whitefish Pilot had been publishing news since 1904, so I went to their office where they allowed me to search through a century of yellowing newspapers. The papers were stacked on tables, had not been catalogued, and were not in chronological order. Even so, I found a startling clue to the identity of the spirit Joey had seen.

While the Christmas party crasher had appeared out of place, I discovered a report that suggests he was in the right place, but at the wrong time. He was seventy-five years late to the party!

Marcus Lafayette Prowse had celebrated his seventy-sixth birthday there, seventy-five years earlier on December 12, 1922. Back then, it was Hori’s Café, and he had enjoyed a birthday celebration dinner with family in the classy restaurant. He walked home that night along the railroad tracks.

The Great Northern Railway’s Passenger Train 44 chugged into Whitefish and rounded a curve at 10:28 p.m. Engineer Fred Kaiding had no time to blow the whistle when he saw the man on the tracks. It was Mr. Prowse, and he was blinded by the train’s bright light. Kaiding watched in horror as the old man hesitated and started to turn. A millisecond later, he was struck. He died instantly.

Had Marcus Prowse’s spirit returned to the restaurant where he’d last seen his family? Had the Remington party stirred a memory of his last party, prompting him to appear? These are the types of questions I ask readers, and it’s ultimately up to you to reach your own conclusions after I share what I know.

What do I know? While some refer to me as a ghost expert, I insist I am not. Only those who have shed their flesh and bones and crossed over to the Other Side are the true experts. I’ve studied the leading theories embraced by parapsychologists and rely on their decades of research as a general guideline. Any special insights I possess come from collecting my own data. I’ve noted patterns of paranormal activity at haunted sites. I’ve interviewed hundreds of people about their spirit encounters. I’ve slept in haunted hotels and even endured a bumpy ride on a haunted roller coaster in my quest for answers. Yet, my knowledge of otherworldly things is as limited as any other human being’s.

I initially chose to research ghosts because I wanted to see proof of their existence. This was never a frightening venture for me. It was exciting. If ghosts exist, then that means that we live on after our bodies die. This is something to be celebrated, not feared. It is the reason I set out, a quarter of a century ago, to validate ghost sightings by finding historical documents that matched the scenarios reported in haunted places.

While studying the deaths of the earthbound might seem morbid, it is an integral part of my research. Parapsychologists have long noted that the most active haunted sites tend to be places where traumatic deaths have occurred. Murders, suicides, and accidents are the ultimate ghost makers. Marcus Prowse may be earthbound because his death was sudden and violent.

I included Mr. Prowse’s case in my first book on hauntings, Coast to Coast Ghosts, published in 2001. I went on to write three more nonfiction books on ghosts, the last published in 2008. My editor, Charlie Upchurch, and I have selected favorite stories from these books to feature in Haunted in America. In addition, we’ve added brand new cases, as well as updates on earlier stories.

While most readers of ghost stories are open to new ideas, we realize there are skeptics in our midst. It’s not our goal to change anyone’s mind, but we hope all readers will be entertained, regardless of their stance on the paranormal. This is not intended to be a scary book, but we admit some of the stories are chilling. From the case of the slain woman that only a little boy could see, to the antique mirror reflecting ghostly faces, these true accounts come from real people who are willing to admit they are Haunted in America.

1

The Eyes of Babes

I can’t remember being a baby, but my mother told me that I laughed constantly. "You laughed at everything , she said. You laughed at clouds, and you laughed at trees." Whenever she placed me on a blanket on the grass, I would gaze up at the boughs of the fir trees and giggle hysterically. What was so funny about tree branches? I can’t imagine what I could possibly have found so humorous. It occurs to me that I could have been laughing at something or someone that my mother coul dn’t see.

A leading theory among parapsychologists suggests that humans are born with their third eyes wide open, but most of us lose our ability to see spirits as we age. Why do we lose this keen sixth sense? For one simple reason. We’re taught not to see!

In our American culture, few adults accept the idea that spirits are around us and that children can see them. Kids know when adults doubt them. They can sense their parents’ discomfort, even when the adults don’t deliberately shame or ridicule them. Kids want to please their parents, so little by little, their third eyes droop until they are so tightly shut that they can no longer see beyond this world.

In the following story, a group of young cousins witnessed something they were told was impossible. Decades have passed since the frightening episode, and the children who experienced it are now middle aged. But they remember it clearly, and when they compare notes, they realize they did not imagine the madman they encountered in their grandparents’ attic.

Madman in the Attic

When most people remember time spent at their grandparents’ homes, their memories are pleasant. Some folks think of fresh-baked cookies, and others smile as they reminisce about grandma’s prize-winning tomatoes or the wonderful stories their grandpa told. And almost everyone remembers feeling safe. When Marilyn Covarrubias thinks of her grandparents’ house, however, she remembers the scariest moment of her life.

Marilyn was barely school age in the 1950s when she and an assortment of siblings and cousins were often dropped off for long stays with her grandparents in their rented home in Los Angeles, California. It was an old house, she recalled. And it was right across the street from Hazard Park. The twenty-five-acre park, with rolling green hills and countless trees to climb, was named for Henry Thomas Hazard, one of Los Angeles’ first mayors. The park was enticing to the children, who often sneaked across the road to play there when the adults left them on their own. We were left alone a lot, she confided.

It was a little spooky, considering that the house made more than its share of odd noises. While old houses tend to creak and groan as the weather changes, the sounds that Marilyn and her cousins heard could not be explained. We heard a woman and a baby crying, she said and described the eerie, phantom sobs that emanated from an empty room. One day, my grandma pulled a piece of cardboard off of a hole in the wall and found old clothes inside.

Marilyn watched as her grandmother reached into the wall and extracted old garments—clothing that had once belonged to a woman and baby. Was it hidden in the wall for a sinister reason? Did it have something to do with the ghostly sobbing? Perhaps it was simply insulation. In bygone days, used clothing was sometimes recycled as insulation.

The house was made of heavy wood with plank floors, like many of the homes built in the nineteenth century, and it had probably seen many families come and go. Today, Marilyn can’t help but wonder if one of those families left something more than clothing behind. But as a child, she didn’t realize anything was off. She enjoyed playing with her gang of cousins in the third-floor attic, an area designated for the grandchildren. My grandparents kept two big beds up there, and they pushed them together in the middle of the room.

The children loved to jump on the beds and race around the attic. One evening, when Marilyn was six, the kids again found themselves alone. It was Grandma’s bingo night, she remembered. There were six of us playing in the attic. The bunch ranged in age from her little sister, Karen, who was just a year old, to her cousin Reuben, who was eight. Donny, Reuben, Marian, Marilyn, Tony, and Karen were all happily playing when they heard the familiar sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. My grandpa was a big man with size fourteen shoes, said Marilyn. He always made a lot of noise when he came up those stairs.

The kids were up past their bedtime, so they rushed to get into the beds, pulling the covers up to their chins as they listened to their grandpa’s approaching steps. We were all giggling and trying to pretend we were asleep.

But when the door flew open, it was not Grandpa. A stranger stood in the doorway. The man looked as if he had been caught in a downpour. He was so wet that his hair was matted to his forehead, said Marilyn. He wore a plaid shirt like a lumberjack, and his eyes were bloodshot. They were so bloodshot that they were completely red.

As he stood there, the stranger made a sound that is hard for Marilyn to describe yet impossible for her to forget. It was as if he were laughing and crying at the same time. The children were dumbstruck by the image of the wild man with the maniacal cry. They watched in horror as he suddenly bolted toward them. When he reached the beds, he did not stop. He ran right through the beds. We could feel him, said Marilyn, describing the sensation as a rush of cold wind. The man dove for the window, and as he broke through the glass, they heard it shattering around them. And then, the only sound was the steady patter of rain.

Was the crazy man outside, broken and dead on the ground, far below the attic window? The kids were too scared to get out of bed and look. They huddled beneath the blankets, waiting for what seemed like hours. Then we heard footsteps on the stairs again. The children were petrified and barely able to breathe as heavy feet thundered up the stairs toward them. Again, the door flew open. This time it was Grandpa. We jumped out of bed and ran to him. We were all crying.

Their grandfather listened as they clung to him and told their wild story. It was just your imagination, he said, consoling them as he patted their heads. He led them to the window. See, he said patiently. The glass isn’t broken. And it’s not raining. It was true. The window was intact, and the night was dry. Grandpa must be right, six-year-old Marilyn decided. There was no man. No shattered glass. No one had jumped through the window. They had imagined the whole thing.

Decades later, she had not forgotten the crazed man who dove through the attic window. She was reminiscing with her cousin, Tony, at a family gathering when he mentioned the ghost in the attic. She gasped. I thought I imagined that!

Oh, no! he assured her. It really happened. Tony recalled the scene exactly as she had, and he told her that he and Reuben had discussed the bizarre occurrence many times over the years. Marilyn had accepted her grandfather’s explanation without question when she was a child. Now, she realized that his reasoning was wrong. It wasn’t possible that all the kids would imagine the same thing.

She tried to make sense of what had happened and asked her mother if she’d ever noticed anything odd about the house. Her mother confided that she, too, had seen something peculiar there. On one memorable afternoon, she had been napping on the couch in the living room when she awoke to see a woman with a dog, walking across the room. My mother told me that the dog stopped and licked her hand, said Marilyn. As the woman strolled by, the canine followed, and then, suddenly, they both vanished.

Who were the ghosts? Had they lived and died in the house? Had the clothing found in the wall belonged to former tenants who met tragic endings? And what about the madman in the attic? Had he killed himself by leaping through the window? If so, why did he do it? Had something awful happened to him? Or had he done something so bad to someone else that it drove him to suicide from guilt?

Despite my digging, I have yet to find a historical account of a man leaping through the window in the grandparents’ attic. I’ve found nothing to explain the paranormal activity in the spooky, old house. While this mystery may never be solved, I’m continuing to research. The source of the haunting in the next case, however, has been determined. Just like the children who witnessed the madman in the attic, the little boy in this story saw a ghost at his grandparents’ house. He, too, was dismissed when they chalked the sightings up to a child’s imagination. In this case, however, the boy was finally believed when his grandparents learned the shocking truth.

Imaginary Friend

When the couple moved into their new home in Modesto, California, they did not inquire about its history. They knew only that the cute ranch-style house in the quiet neighborhood seemed perfect for them. After they moved in, their little grandson, who often stayed with them, made a new imaginary friend. He called her Debi.

As the adults relaxed and enjoyed their dream home, the toddler played with his invisible buddy. The grown-ups just laughed and shook their heads. It did not occur to them that Debi was anything other than a figment of the child’s imagination. And they had no idea that their dream house had turned into a nightmare house for someone else.

Deborah Ann Whitlock was a vivacious woman who loved life. At thirty-two, the Modesto wife and mother worked for Sears and was slated to be their youngest female store manager. She was hardworking and dedicated to her job, but most of all, she was devoted to her three-year-old daughter, C.J. It was the love for her daughter that allowed her to endure the worst that any human being can—without uttering a scream. On March 25, 1988, Debi was brutally attacked in her own bed as her toddler slept in the next room. She was a hero, said Debi’s mother, Jacque MacDonald. If she had screamed, C.J. would have woken up. She kept quiet to save her daughter’s life.

Scott Avery Fizzell was a teenage meth addict in the spring of 1988. He prowled the Whitlocks’ neighborhood in camouflage clothing, looking for things to steal to fund his habit. He carried a burglary kit that included gloves and a Halloween mask as he crept through backyards, searching for unlocked doors and windows. It was close to midnight that Thursday when he discovered the Whitlocks’ sliding glass door unlocked. He slipped into their home and found Debi’s purse in the kitchen. He took the purse, containing seven dollars, and left.

Why did he return? Why didn’t he just take the money and move on? Tragically, he had something more sinister than theft in mind. He returned to the house, went to Debi’s room, and touched her as she slept. When she awoke in a panic, he killed and then sexually assaulted her.

Debi’s husband, Howie Whitlock, was at a coworker’s bachelor party on the night of the murder. He was out very late, and when he arrived home at quarter to six in the morning, he got the shock of his life. He discovered his wife, lifeless, in the hallway outside of their bedroom. Her throat had been slit, but their little daughter was unharmed. Miraculously, C.J. had slept through the night.

Debi’s friends and family were devastated. Her mother, Jacque MacDonald, was so overcome with grief that she could barely function. When she learned that detectives had no viable suspect, she was outraged. She knew that her son-in-law was a suspect because spouses are the first to be scrutinized in homicide investigations. There was a moment when Jacque, too, wondered if Howie could be guilty. But despite the fact their marriage had been troubled, Jacque realized that Howie did not kill Debi. He was a gentle man. Jacque defended him, and she was bothered by the gossip.

When neighbors were interviewed by reporters from the local newspaper, one was quoted saying that she hoped that the murder was the result of a domestic dispute, rather than a random occurrence. She would be safer, said the neighbor, if there were no random killer stalking their street. As it turned out, of course, the culprit was a random killer, and the neighbor who had made the thoughtless remark could have been a victim just as easily as poor Debi.

After Debi Whitlock’s shocking death, her spirit was seen in the home where she took her last breaths.

But it was nine long years before Scott Fizzell was caught. Throughout that time, Jacque worked tirelessly to get justice for her daughter. In her campaign to keep Debi’s memory alive, she plastered posters and fliers all over the city. She placed Debi’s picture on pizza boxes and grocery carts, and she also appeared on dozens of television programs to tell Debi’s story.

Her efforts finally paid off when a witness saw one of Jacque’s billboards and came forward in 1997. He had been a casual acquaintance of Scott’s. On the night of the murder, Scott had visited and confessed that he had just killed a woman. Thanks to the informant’s tip, Fizzell was arrested, and the DNA evidence from the crime scene proved he was the killer. He pled guilty in 1999 and was sentenced to thirty-one years to life in prison.

Jacque MacDonald’s quest for justice did not end with the conviction of Debi’s killer. She was passionate about justice for all victims and launched Victim’s Voice, a thirty-minute TV program that addressed the concerns of victims and their families. In one segment, with prior permission, she visited the crime scene where her daughter had drawn her last breath. The house’s new owners were stunned to learn of the murder but graciously allowed the video cameras inside. Jacque swallowed hard and followed the woman to the room that had once been Debi’s.

The homeowner was astonished to realize that her grandson’s special friend, Debi, was not imaginary after all. She was a ghost! While only the little boy had actually seen the spirit, others had witnessed the door to Debi’s room opening and closing on its own. The new lady of the house told Jacque that she had been startled to see the rocking chair suddenly begin to rock on its own. It happened when no one was in the chair, and no one was near enough to touch it. As the chair swayed, her grandson had pointed at it and announced, Debi’s in the chair.

Stranger still was the visit to the grocery store. When his grandmother lifted him up to put him in the shopping cart, the preschooler had taken one look at the face printed on the seat and screamed, No! I don’t want to sit on Debi! The child could not read, but he pointed to the photograph of the smiling young woman. It was a picture of Debi on one of the notices that Jacque had had placed on the cart seats! At the time, however, the grandmother had no idea who Debi was or that anyone had been murdered in her home. After Jacque MacDonald’s visit, everything was chillingly clear.

Jacque was not surprised to hear that the little boy had interacted with Debi’s ghost. The grieving mother believed with all her heart that her daughter’s spirit was still around. Debi loved children, she told me. It was just like her to befriend a little boy.

Paranormal investigators have long noted that earthbound spirits seem to be intrigued by people who remind them of those they knew in life. In Debi Whitlock’s case, she was devoted to her young daughter. Debi’s sudden and violent death may have been such a shock to her soul that she didn’t realize she was dead. Possibly, she was searching for her daughter, and when she couldn’t find her in their home, she gravitated toward the new homeowners’ grandchild who was about the age of C.J. when Debi last saw her.

While living in Merced, California, Jacque MacDonald hosted Victim’s Voice on TV and radio for eighteen years and placed a special emphasis on unsolved homicides. She was a recipient of the Justice Department’s National Crime Victims’ Service Award in 2007. Her health declined in recent years, and she died at age eighty-six in Grants Pass, Oregon, on March 11, 2020.

Stressed by the accusations against him, Howie Whitlock’s life took a downward spiral, and he died in 2001. His daughter (Debi’s stepdaughter), author Angela Dove, wrote a book about the murder and the toll it took on their family. No Room for Doubt is a powerful story, published by the Berkley Publishing Group in 2009.

Scott Fizzell is currently incarcerated at the Mule Creek State Prison in Ione, California. In July 2020, he was denied parole after a psychologist determined he still posed a high risk for violence.

***

Hollywood screenwriters seem to relish frightening viewers with their fictitious films of horror-story hauntings, but in reality, most encounters involve benign spirits. Just as the child in the previous account befriended the ghost of Debi Whitlock, the little girl in the next case had a special bond with a friendly ghost that only she could see.

Blissful Bond

When Cecelia Meurling was a little girl, she loved to visit her grandparents’ farm on Gueme’s Island. The small, secluded island is lesser known than the other popular tourist destination, San Juan Islands, that are scattered across Puget Sound like irregular puddles of pancake batter on the grill. Gueme’s Island is just north across the channel from Anacortes, Washington, and was first settled by Cecelia’s great-grandfather.

My grandparents lived in a one-story house, painted white. It sat back some distance from the road, and it was about a half mile up the hill from the ferry, said Cecelia, who today is the mother of a grown son. The Burien, Washington, cat shelter volunteer can close her eyes and still see Dolly and Bonny, her grandfather’s sturdy, white plow horses. He had chickens, too, and it was my job to watch for hawks and tell him right away when I saw one.

The picturesque farm, surrounded by pastures and cornfields, had been in the family for generations. In fact, Cecelia’s mother had been born in the house. Dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles had also grown up on the island. Her grandparents, Bob and Mary Merchant, knew everyone who lived there.

I called my grandmother Sela. She was short and plump with curly, dark hair. She loved her flower garden, and when I stayed there, we would get up early with the chickens! And with our pajamas still on, we’d go out to see how her ‘girls’ were doing, she said, describing how they would admire the daffodils, roses, and pansies as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Cecelia remembers the swing on the old crabapple tree, and how her grandmother took time from cooking to push her on it. She would stir a pot, and run out to give me a push, and then run back in and stir some more. We were very close. We could talk about anything. Yet there was a time when one topic was off-limits. Cecelia was four years old when she found herself unwilling to speak to anyone about someone very special to her.

One bright spring day, Cecelia told her grandmother that she was going out to play. She stepped outside into the fresh, salty air, and as she skipped toward the fields, she was met by a girl. She was not familiar to me, Cecelia said. Yet, it was like she was waiting for me. The little girls looked into each other’s smiling eyes and clasped hands. It was an instant, blissful bond. I was so happy to see her, and she was just as happy to see me. We ran into the field, holding hands and giggling.

The child was about Cecelia’s size and clad in a pair of blue overalls. Her blond curls bounced, shining in the sunshine as they frolicked. We never talked, said Cecelia. We never said a word. The girls headed toward the barn and were playing behind it when Cecelia heard her grandmother calling. Grandma Sela’s voice was strained with worry. Cecelia knew that her grandmother liked to keep an eye on her, so she let go of her little friend’s hand and stepped out from behind the barn. I waved to my grandmother to let her know where I was, she said. She turned back to her friend. The girl with the curly hair was gone.

When Grandma Sela approached to see what her grandchild was up to, Cecelia excitedly told her that she had been playing with her new friend. Her grandmother glanced around. I would like to know who you are talking about, she said. Cecelia grabbed Grandma Sela’s hand and pulled her along, saying, Come and meet her! She knew her friend could not have gone far. But the child had vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. They gazed about, their eyes searching the pastures and fields stretched out before them. The corn hadn’t started to grow again, and there wasn’t anywhere to hide. Where was she? I want to play with her, Cecelia insisted.

I wish I knew who you were talking about, said Grandma Sela and shook her head. I can’t imagine who she could be. The nearest neighbors lived far down the road. Grandma Sela knew everyone on the island and had never seen a child like the one Cecelia described. Yet at age four, Cecelia could not grasp the enormity of the mystery. She knew only that her friend had brought her joy, and she could not wait to see her again. She searched Grandma’s barn and yard, peeking behind the apple trees. She circled the house, desperately hoping that the giggling girl would pop out from a hiding place. I never saw her again, Cecelia said sadly. I was overwhelmingly disappointed that I could not find her.

Later, when she overheard her grandmother telling her mother about the mystery girl, Cecelia felt an odd stirring in her belly. Her grandmother made it sound as if something was wrong. To me it had been the most natural thing in the world, she confided. But my grandmother made such a big issue of it, I decided not to talk about it anymore. She still missed her friend, but she kept it to herself.

Years later, when her grandmother mentioned the puzzling visit from the little girl, Cecelia told her that she still remembered it. Grandma Sela’s eyes narrowed as she pondered the possibilities. I don’t know who she could have been, she said. Unless she was an angel. It was then that Cecelia began to wonder. Perhaps the little girl had not been of this world. It was hard to imagine. Her hand had been warm and solid when she held it in her own. Where had the girl come from? How could she have appeared so quickly and then disappear again? Why didn’t they see her running away across the fields?

If she was a spirit child, perhaps she was a relative. Cecelia’s great-grandmother had given birth to seventeen children on the island, and not all had survived childhood. It seems that whoever she was, the gleeful child was indeed from another place. She had not arrived on the island by ferryboat, as Cecelia had, but had journeyed there from an unknown world in a mysterious fashion. Angel or ghost, Cecelia will never forget her. The little girl brought me such a feeling of pure joy and bliss, said Cecelia. I’ve never felt that happy since. I wonder if I will ever see her again.

When it comes to ghost encounters, the younger the child, the more accepting they are. Older kids tend to be spooked when they see apparitions, probably because they’ve internalized our culture’s fearful attitude about the paranormal. Reactions are varied, and sometimes children are afraid because they sense the fear that the spirit felt in their last moment alive. Sometimes kids aren’t really frightened but simply startled because the encounters take them by surprise. In the following case, two young girls had just such an encounter when they met in an unlikely place. One of them told me her story.

Stranger in